


Tranquility

by katherineerosee



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherineerosee/pseuds/katherineerosee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That boiling, frenzied tempest beneath Cloud’s skin spread in waves across them, as consuming and fiery as a wild inferno. The warmth sunk into flesh, into tissue, muscle, bone, blood until the scars – internal and external – were smothered by a flame so scalding in its thrill Vincent thought he might just catch fire before the night settled around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tranquility

**Author's Note:**

> To be perfectly honest I'm not even sure where this came from, I was supposed to be working on my other stories but then this just happened. This pairing needs more love anyway, so it's all cool.

He always found it easy to relate to Cloud, to stand beside him, as it was always _quiet._ The blond never found the need to fill the lulling silence with prosaic chatter, with questions he didn’t answer – both because he truly didn’t know the answers, and because reliving the memories was too _painful_ to bare at the best of times – he never once tried to make him come out of his meticulously forged bastille – _his meticulously forged bars of rage_. Because he understood. He understood the feeling of frigid sweat beading at your neck as another memory consumed your – _so few and far between –_ resting moments, the phantom hands gripping your wrists and ankles deathly tight to the stiff, unforgiving metal – _a patient etherised on a table_ – the sickly whispers in your ears of _this is your fault_ and _you could have done more, always more_ – he _understood_. It was refreshing to stand silently, listening to the soft whispers of the wind across the greying petals of winter–struck trees under the smouldering gaze of twilight. It was _easy_.

He felt Cloud’s gloved fingers brush gently against the back of his palm, a sweep of chilled leather against equally chilly, porcelain skin, and it sent tingles up his extremities. A swift glance in his direction showed Cloud staring out at the parting dusk, mako bright eyes shining like luminous azure jewels in the fading golden light. It seemed almost accidental, the softest soothe of contact, as if they were walking in tandem, but he knew the blond had more control over his body than that. They were similar in that way, both smooth–moving – _slithering about like yellow fog that rubs its back against clouded window panes_ – and graceful – as was expected from years of experience, the mako – _or demon, in his case_ – cocktail flooding through their veins, and the price of their humanity – so he knew it was _anything_ but accidental. Cloud shifted slightly where he stood – _yellow smoke that rubs its dirtied muzzle against grimy window panes_ – feet shuffling against the dusty ground until his hip cocked out and he rested his weight on one leg. Even then he was quiet.

The blond’s gaze was on his face, vivid, icy cerulean scorching his ivory complexion with an intensity the blond only displayed away from the rest of AVALANCHE’s prying eyes. It was always like this, whenever the rest of their rag–tag group was around, Cloud was just as quiet as he always was, blunt, soft answers to questions they insisted on asking him, but as soon they departed, a muted, controlled flame would boil and burn in his veins, like a frenzied tempest trying to burst through his pearly skin. A reticent passion that rendered Vincent more speechless – _more silent_ – than usual.

He didn’t know what to do with his body as the blond turned to face him, his skin felt tingly and his spine seemed to be shifting uncomfortably against his will. He could almost hear Chaos snickering at him within the deepest recesses of his mind. His hands fluttered at his sides, fingers curling and wrists twitching – _do I move? Do I turn and face all these endless possibilities? Do I force this moment to its crisis? Do I dare disturb the universe?_

Gentle fingers carded through the hair at the base of his neck, and it took all of his willpower to not shy away, to recognise these gentle caresses along his skull as tender and warm and not rubber–glove clad fingertips searching for a weak–point. It was difficult to pull his mind back to reality in these times, when glasses that flashed like warning beacons caught his mind’s eye, and skeletal, spidery fingers scraped imagined flesh and tissue and bone away until nothing but hollowness remained. _Oh, what insidious intent_ – reminiscence at its most painful. The fingers continued, seemingly unaware of the wary tensing of his neck muscles – though he knew Cloud must have seen it, he wasn’t mako enhanced for nothing, after all – and soon another hand joined it at the base of his skull.

The soft graze of Cloud’s fingers buried in his hair gently pulled his eyes from the fading warmth of dusk as his body turned to the blond, and his neck tilted under the calm pressure of Cloud’s palms against the back of his throat. Azure eyes stared up into his own, the blond’s androgynous features were serene in the fiery burnt hues of the blazing horizon, and his lips were set thoughtfully. Something in his expression screamed _should I now presume? And how should I begin?_ and he nodded his head in assent, with _I am no prophet, but I am moved by an infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing_ burning on the tip of his tongue. But it was silent.

Cloud’s gloved thumbs swept across the greying skin of his cheekbone, just beneath onyx lashes and tired scarlet eyes, as if to catch imagined tears. The affectionate sweep of crisp, cool leather against his skin was pleasantly biting in the balmy flurry of evening winds, and sent further tingles down his spine – _the sharp contrast between the burnt–out ends of smoky autumn days and the lilacs in bloom across the low spring sky_. The blond leaned up into him, his chest brushing against his own, their shoulders knocking gently and their noses grazing. Each inhale he took – which were becoming shorter and shallower as each star emerged from the blackness above them – was filled with the sharp perfume of seasoned, well–worn leather, the faintest traces of motor oil and the spicy tang of familiar soap.

He was almost surprised when cool, silken lips brushed against his own. He settled his hands on slim hips, because he didn’t know what to do. But he knew it was silent _._

The hands at his neck rubbed soothing circles against the base of his skull, threading through his hair and massaging the protruding bones of his spine. He followed the gentle movements, golden talons spreading wintry tingles across slim hips, and a warm, calloused hand soothing the chill with the softest of grazes. It was calm, tender under the peeking stars overhead, the thousands of sordid images surrounding them; the things lesser men’s souls were constituted.

That boiling, frenzied tempest beneath Cloud’s skin spread in waves across them, as consuming and fiery as a wild inferno. The warmth sunk into flesh, into tissue, muscle, bone, blood until the scars – _internal and external_ – were smothered by a flame so scalding in its thrill Vincent thought he might just catch fire before the night settled around them.

The tenderness remained, softly buried beneath a blanket of sultry, molten ardour as they moved together. Layers were shed in burning haste, scars exposed to milky soft moonlight and luminous heavenly bodies, heat shared between writhing limbs. The dry grass beneath them itched at their skin, and the greyed petals scattered in arbitrary patterns across the patchy turf fluttered around and between them. The tepid air above them was saccharine, the greenery beneath peppery and the cadence around them spicy. And then they were one.

And it was still sublimely, exquisitely _silent_.

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone pick up the T.S Eliot and Maya Angelou references? No? Okay.


End file.
